


All We Are Not Yet

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The "Unnamed" Series [12]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:38:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" 'Don't go. Not yet.' He says it with his back to her. Steals the words right from her mouth, because she was going. Of course she was." A post-ep for Cops and Robbers (4 x 07).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Are Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth story I wrote in the Unnamed Series; it comes twelfth in terms of show chronology.

* * *

She's not ready to let him out of her sight. Not yet.

It was close today. _So_ close, and her heart's still doing strange things in her chest. It all keeps coming back to her. The force of the blast. The van rocking beneath her. Dust and smoke clogging her throat. His name, thin and desperate on her tongue.

He's not doing any better. Not really. He's drinking steadily. She is, too. He raises his eyebrows and tips the bottle her way. She nods, again and again. He fills her glass and his own, but she can feel the nerves rolling off him. She sees him working to catch his breath. To keep his voice steady and smile in the right places.

It's a brave front for Alexis. For Martha, who _can_ _'_ _t_ be as centered as she seems. Not after all that. But she's as bright and fluttering as ever. She's telling stories. Acting out scenes and playing both parts. Scolding Castle for his "uninspired performance."

"Really, Detective, it's a good thing I was there." She tips back another swallow of wine. "Richard is _hopeless_ at subterfuge."

"Hopeless," Kate echoes.

She smiles at Martha and brushes her fingers over the back of his hand under the table. It's shaking. _He_ _'_ _s_ shaking. His palm is pressed hard against his knee, but it's not enough.

She the one to lean across for the wine this time. A pretext and not.

"You ok?"

She drops the words low in his ear. It's more than a little manufactured, though. The intimate moment. Martha is caught up in her performances and Alexis is laughing too hard to pay them any mind. She needs the nearness, though. She wants his breath close enough to feel.

"Yeah." He smiles. False at first. The brave face she never wants him to wear. Not for her. But it wanes into something else. Smaller, but sincere. "Yeah. Just . . . close."

"Close." It's her voice that wavers. _Close_.

He reaches to steady the foot of his wine glass as she pours. He thanks her with a nod of his own. A flicker of fingers at the inside of her wrist as she retreats. They're both shaking now.

"And the _worst_ —the absolute _worst_ performance from my son . . ." Martha claps her hands once for quiet. She bows her head briefly and looks up again. "Yeah," she says in a ridiculous drawl. "Well. She's not my girlfriend." She breaks character. Fixes Castle with a withering look. " _Really_ , Richard."

Castle chokes on his mouthful of wine. Alexis rocks with laughter. Martha is off to the next moment and the next.

Kate burns withe fire of four years rolling over her.

_Yeah. Well. She's not my girlfriend._

* * *

She should go. She knows she should.

It's late. They all sat around the table long after they could eat another thing. Long after more wine was a good idea.

Martha's nodding on the couch now. Conducting to some internal tune and telling Alexis tales as the girl stretches and yawns.

Kate helps Castle clear the table, few words between them as they work side by side. There's not a lot of room in the kitchen.

"You cook like your mother." She smiles, surveying the counter already littered with bowls and utensils and cutting boards.

"She cooks like _me._ _"_

He bumps her with his shoulder as he moves past. As he tries to move past. The contact stalls them both. It tugs them together. Too close. She really should go.

But the kitchen is a mess. She's a guest. It's the least she can do. It's a terrible excuse, not least of all because it's true. She's a guest here.

_Yeah. Well. She's not my girlfriend._

She moves for the dishwasher. Away from him, but he circles her wrist with light fingers.

"Leave them, Kate."

"Castle, let me . . ." She gives a laugh. It's nervous. Awkward. Does nothing to cut through the heavy atmosphere between them.

"Just . . . Kate. Just leave something." He steps too close. He rests his forehead against her hair for just a second. "For tomorrow. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

She nods, weak with relief because they have that. They have another day and another day after that. "Tomorrow."

They're both startled by voices from the living room. The stairs. Martha and Alexis are calling out good nights. She tries not to look guilty as she slinks away from him. Alexis murmurs a quiet thank you. She touches Kate's shoulder. It's stiff—all the more in contrast to Martha's exuberant embrace—but it's something. Progress.

Kate stands apart. Lingers by the door as he hugs them both in turn. The two of them together. A knot of family, shaky with relief. She feels out of place. An intruder on the quiet, lingering words as Martha and Alexis trail up the stairs, each of them looking back over their shoulders. They're not ready to let him out of their sight, either.

"Don't go. Not yet."

He says it with his back to her. Steals the words right from her mouth, because she was going. Of course she was. Martha and Alexis wink out of sight, and she really should. She's left with breath and nothing to say.

"I won't." It's not what she intended. It's absolutely not, but she won't take it back. "Not yet."

* * *

He goes to change clothes.

"The smoke." He grimaces and tugs at his shirt collar. "The smell. It's getting to me."

Her stomach twists and climbs at the memory. She can't breathe. Their eyes meet. He knows. He feels it exactly. The loss that wasn't but could have been. So nearly was.

_Just . . . close._

It calls up heat between them. Unsteady and airless, but heat nonetheless. Neither of them knows what to do with it. This time between _not yet_ and _tomorrow._ They both know too well.

He looks away. Toward his office. His bedroom and swiftly back at her. He shakes himself. Tries to make the moment let go, but he wants to ask. He wants to tell her again. _Don_ _'_ _t go. Not yet._

She nods. Takes a step toward the living room. A step further in and answers. _I won_ _'_ _t. Not yet._

He smiles back. Doesn't hide the grateful release of breath. There's some regret in it.

Only some.

* * *

He's still tugging the t-shirt down as he makes his way from the bedroom back to the office. She can see the pile of cast-off clothes crumpled at the foot of the bed, out of place among the clean lines of the uncluttered space.

For all the chaos of his kitchen after a meal, most things about him are neat. His home. The way he presents himself. His habits. They're all precise. Orderly, though she would never have known three years back. Four almost, when she took the disheveled look at face value.

She knows now, though. It's not like him. The way he's shed these things and left them. _For tomorrow._

It's not like him, and her heart hurts to think this is happening to him, too. This visceral memory that has her winding down, helpless, like a doll on a pull string.

He stops short when he sees her lingering on the threshold between living room and office. He's surprised to find her so close. She's surprised to be there. She didn't mean to follow him, but she's drifting closer. They're drifting together. _Inevitable._ She feels something crumble, leaving the word in its place. Some propped up reason to keep each other at arm's length. They're hardly a breath apart now. The dead center of the room.

"Not your girlfriend," she says. It's mournful. That's a surprise, too. She certainly didn't mean to come to him for comfort. Salve for . . . what? Her wounded pride? It's ridiculous. She shouldn't be here at all. She should go.

"I didn't . . ." He shakes his head. Looks down at the thick pile of carpet and her bare toes buried in it. "I didn't want him to use it . . . use me against you."

"He did, though." The back of her hand brushes his, a flare of contact that falls away. "I heard that shot and I could see . . ." Her fingers rise unbidden between them, just barely tracing the ridged neck of his shirt. Lingering at the hollow between his collarbones. "I could see the gun at your throat, and I did everything wrong."

"You didn't. You _didn't._ "

He's little-boy indignant about it. His jaw is set and he's staring her down like she's just insulted his favorite superhero.

Maybe she has. The thought makes her blush. It makes her heart skip and stammer and race all at once. There's so much here she hasn't earned.

"I did. It could've . . . it was stupid. It all could've gone wrong. I could've gotten you killed."

She shakes her head. Tries to dismiss it, but he's stubborn now.

"You saved everyone."

"I wasn't thinking about everyone." She heaves in a shaking breath. She wants them to have this. Before tomorrow comes, she wants him to _know._ She wants something said for once in so many words. "I was thinking about you."

That stills him. It quiets them both, and she has the giddy thought this should be awkward. Standing here, this close. Having this conversation. It should be, though there's nothing but heat between them.

"Me?" There's a grin in the softly spoken word. Humor, but yearning, too. Uncertainty. "Even though you're not my girlfriend?"

"Even though."

She means it to be light. A smile given in kind. It's anything but, though. It's low. Throaty and unhappy. Grief-laden and wanting.

He kisses her. It comes with fingers skimming her arm and breath stirring her hair.

"Are you anyone's, Kate?"

The question stings. She's not. He _knows_ she's not. That she can't be. _Not yet._ It _stings,_ and she wants to tell herself the lie. That they have an understanding.

She opens her eyes. He's watching her carefully. They have an understanding. They _do._ But they're both turned inside out. He could have died today. She thought he had, and he's kissing her again. Brief, sweet tastes. Taking and offering.

"Can you be mine?" He whispers it. His voice shakes. His body shakes. "Just . . . until tomorrow, Kate. Can you?"

He's never asked. Not really. In four years. All the times this hasn't happened, he's never been the one to ask. She's never been the one to answer.

She answers now. "Until tomorrow."

She slides her fingers under the hem of his shirt. Claims skin she's hardly had time to forget. It burns her. Fire sweeping over them both as his arms come around her. As he kisses her deep and hard and murmurs that she tastes like smoke.

They stumble together. Tugging back and forth at each other's clothes.

He turns their bodies. He has her against one of the book cases. His mouth drops open in silent satisfaction as the snaps of her shirt give way. His mouth slides a hot, wet trail from her shoulder to her breast.

She presses on tiptoe, answering an urgent call to have him closer. _Closer._ It unbalances them both and they're turning again. The upright of a bookcase now. A doorway. The threshold of his bedroom.

He pulls back. Feels her go rigid and still. He knows without looking.

"Just until tomorrow." He kisses her. Sweetly again, now. Like a goodnight on some other doorstep. Like some hopeful, innocent moment yet to come. He eases the pins from her hair and traces the shape of her face with the tips of his thumbs. "For now."

He pulls her to him. Steps her back from the doorway and lays her down on the thick white of the office carpet.

* * *

They lie together for a long time afterward. Bare and side by side, long after it's comfortable, but she doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to let her.

They talk a little. Pieces of the day she puts together for him. He puts together for her. Where on earth they found a paramedic's uniform to fit her. His mother being his mother through every single second.

He nods off. She thinks so, anyway, when the words trail into quiet, but he's the first to move when the sky lightens in undeniable streaks of violet. The first to reach for her clothes, crumpled and forgotten somewhere far off.

"Tomorrow," he says quietly when she stills his hand. When she looks up at him with an apology in her eyes. "I knew . . . . I know, Kate. It's ok."

"Not really." She bites it out.

"Not really." He kisses her. A flash of teeth in it as he presses her hard into the carpet for a long moment. As he takes her breath away and she doesn't miss it. "Not yet."


End file.
